ashes only sing the truth
by lokium
Summary: "Of course, Sherlock had had the surgery, the hormone therapy, the papers and records changed (and all the best, only ever the best for his 'daughter') but his father had never understood." rated t for allusions to drugs, possibly sensitive issues, possible trigger for gender issues


The condition on which Sherlock's father had complied with using the right pronouns when communicating with Joan was that Sherlock would be on his best behaviour. Sherringford Holmes, for all his intelligence (after all, he did bring up—in the loosest sense of the term—both Sherlock and Mycroft), was not particularly wise to Sherlock's issues. Of course, Sherlock had had the surgery, the hormone therapy, the papers and records changed (and all the best, only ever the best for his 'daughter') but his father had never _understood_.

Even at the time, Sherlock had hated himself for suggesting the compromise, internally likened it to him referring to Sherringford as his mother unless he got his way, like some child with a temper tantrum, but he kept it to himself. _If I get my way_, he'd told himself, _if it means this babysitter will actually get something right, then it's worth it._

-x-

The first time he meets Joan Watson, he's nervous. It's for a number of reasons: he doesn't like people in general, hates talking to them, getting to know them as people rather than puzzles; he's not sure what his father has told her but he assumes not much of it is good; he only already knows what his father's told _him_ about _her_, which isn't really that much, just a name, general background, credentials (but enough to look her up and find out that her father, big name in business, had had an affair, the parents were together now, she was an only child, just the basics really), and it's almost like a compulsion to know everything about a person, regardless of whether or not he's actually met them; and above all, he's not properly dressed. He knows the scars from his top surgery aren't all that visible (after all, _only the best_), and he always, _always_ passes, but he's still terrified, he's always terrified, whenever he meets someone new he can't help but think _what if they realise I'm not a 'real' man?_ and sometimes it's enough to make him want to find somewhere warm and quiet and dark and curl up and not think about it.

So really, it's a distraction when he runs off a line from some terrible romantic flick he'd had playing, it's a distraction from everything she might have noticed (because sometimes Sherlock doesn't quite remember that nobody ever notices as much as he does), it's a distraction from the fact that he's not sure that he can go through six weeks of living with someone without them finding out about his past.

Joan Watson eyes him warily until he proves himself to her, but her gaze never lingers on his body, so he counts it as a win.

-x-

Watson seems surprised when she sees him smoking on the rooftop, legs hanging over the edge of the building, ash drifting down onto the street below. She asks if it's part of the withdrawal, or a coping method, or some combination thereof, but the truth is, Sherlock has been smoking since before he was legally allowed to. He likes the way it lowers his voice, how he doesn't have to artificially drop it so much (after all, hormone therapy can only do so much), and aside from that, he likes the smell of fresh cigarette smoke, he likes how it curls around, twisted by the wind, and it seems like a metaphor sometimes, but he's not quite sure how or why.

He doesn't say any of this, just makes a non-committal noise in the back of his throat and offers her one. He's somewhat surprised when she accepts.

-x-

One of the oddest things about having Joan around is that she cares. Whether it's because she's paid to, or actual real concern, she cares about him. It's strange and really rather new (or not new because he and Mycroft were quite close when they were children, but they'd grown apart and Sherlock's transitioning and consequent rejection of his father had only made matters worse) and incredibly scary.

One of the things he liked most about London, the people he was around towards the end, was that they didn't care enough to notice, or didn't notice enough to care. Even though he wouldn't pass to a sober person, the junkies he associated with? They didn't care that he wasn't born a guy, they probably didn't even notice, and there was an inescapable sense of security to that, and a certain sense of irony that the only people he felt comfortable around were drug addicts.

It's somewhat poetic, and even more ironic because now he's technically an addict and he's never felt comfortable in his own skin.

-x-

Three weeks pass, crimes are solved, injuries are acquired and then patched up, a tentative friendship grows between them, and Sherlock thinks he might be able to make it, thinks he might be able to get through the other three weeks without Joan finding out. He's careful, he has to be, but so far she hasn't found out, and if he's made it for this long, what's to say he can't do it this long again? (That, funnily enough, is also part of his motivation when the cravings really kick in.)

So he's careful; he makes sure he's wearing trousers at all times and when there's a chance of Joan walking in on him whilst he's only in underwear, he packs. He makes sure he keeps his voice dropped whenever she's around, and when he forgets, it can be attributed to stress or something similarly plausible. He makes sure he keeps the testosterone (especially its needles, which Joan would easily jump to conclusions about) safely hidden away and makes sure that at 5AM each morning before Joan wakes he quickly injects it, washes the needle, replaces the box in the hidden compartment of his bed. He makes sure he takes measures to conceal anything and everything that could alert Joan to his… _predicament_, and for a while, it works.

-x-

And then, of course, it all goes to hell.

Predictably, Joan walks in on him just after he's taken the injection and he's cleaning the syringe, and she stands in the doorway for long enough to see him stumble slightly (because the only three places he can really do it are his forearm—reminds him way too much of shooting up on the streets—his upper arm—far too noticeable—and his lower back, just above his right buttock, and it always makes it ever so slightly difficult to walk but not as much as if he got injections once every three weeks or so, so he'll take what he can get) before blowing up.

"You said you were done with drugs!" she yells, and Sherlock's quite sure that's hurt in her eyes, and it feels like a punch to the gut. He can't answer, he feels locked in place, and he knows his hands are shaking which really doesn't help his case but he can't help it, he's too numb to care, and all he can think about is how he's lost her now, how his father is going to kick him out of the house and Joan will leave and he needs her too much. She can't leave, he won't survive without her, she's the only one who treats him without any prejudice or expectations.

She takes a step towards him, and he starts, drops the needle and it shatters against the tiles of the kitchen floor. It stirs him back into action, but all he can do is trip over words, nothing quite making sense, and she turns away and leaves (but not before he sees tears in her eyes).

-x-

"I can explain."

Joan doesn't reply, just takes another drag of the cigarette he knows is his, exhales a grey cloud which drifts across the air and onto him. It stings his eyes, and damnit, he's already close to tears, he doesn't need this.

"Please, let me explain." He can't keep the pleading note out of his voice, nor the desperation. He can't lose her now.

"I'm gonna have to tell your father about this," she says quietly, and that's a terrible line to open with.

"He already knows." And then there's bitterness, no, that's not how this was meant to happen. He sits down on the ledge, a few feet between him and her, and absently his fingers trail the place that's still sore even after thirteen hours have passed. She's been avoiding him all day and to be honest, Sherlock doesn't understand why Joan hasn't already told his father.

"Is he spying on you?" Joan asks, and Sherlock can't hold back the snort of derisive laughter.

"He may as well be. No, he wouldn't stoop that low I hope, and even if he did, neither of us would know about it. This, this is something completely different. I'd hoped it wouldn't come to this, but…" he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. "How I am now, that's not what I was on track to be when I was born. I grew up wearing skirts and being my parents' daughter, my brother's younger sister. It took me until I was fourteen to realise that wasn't right. I, I didn't want to say anything, I just, I didn't want to lose you, it was just so nice having someone who saw me as an ordinary man—"

"Sherlock, you're not an ordinary man." Joan cuts in, and it knocks all the air out of him, and she's a doctor (or _was_ a doctor, whichever), of course she'd take it practically— "Nobody could see you solving a crime, doing what you do, and still think you're ordinary."

Sherlock can't think of anything to say.

"From the beginning, I thought something might be up, but since it wasn't an issue, I didn't press it. C'mon, I was a surgeon, you don't think I wouldn't recognise mastectomy scars?" And wow, he hadn't even thought of that. "But I assumed if it was important, you'd tell me. And yeah, I'm slightly upset that you didn't say anything, but I get why. The only reason I was angry this morning was because I thought you'd finished with the drugs, and I thought you'd lied to me."

He's quiet for a moment, before saying, "the funny thing is, I don't think I've lied to you at all. Congratulations." He thinks it's the truth. He may have said something without realising that wasn't strictly the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, but he doesn't think he's ever intentionally lied to her. (Of course, there's his maleness, or lack of all of it, but he never said anything, she made her own conclusions based on what she saw, and really, that's Sherlock's job, so he can't fault her for that.)

"Wow, I feel honoured." Joan says dryly, and it startles a laugh out of him.

He thinks it will be okay.

* * *

title comes from _this love, this hate_ by hollywood undead


End file.
